


Motivation

by codenamecynic



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Decisions, Drow, Explicit Sexual Content, Insomnia, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, sex in the underdark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: The party defeats a beholder at the heart of Philock and readies themselves to return to Skullport with a brand new set of problems. The night after battle Harper can't sleep, and a handsome drow cleric is a better bedfellow than insomnia - even if he can't be trusted.





	Motivation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onemooncircles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemooncircles/gifts), [bettydice (BettyKnight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BettyKnight/gifts), [Dakoyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dakoyone/gifts), [Fionavar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/gifts).



> Another filling in of a fade to black moment. A loose sequel to [Like Darkness Impenetrable](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Alternative_Ethics/works/15722250).

He never has been able to sleep in the dark.

Not the full dark, anyway. He doesn't fear it any more than he fears the sea, but he can recognize the dangers. There's something about the total absence of light that has always felt claustrophobic, lethargic, restraining. It makes his limbs heavy, stony and still.  Like moving through water, just...

Sinking.

It's stupid. He likes the dark. He just can't sleep.

His eyes blink open behind the magical lenses that he rarely takes off these days, staring up at the intangible bubble of Khem's protective sphere, and beyond it the ceiling. There's a crack in the ruined structure where even more shadow from the cavern beyond pours in, a blotch of inky black on the otherwise plain gray stone. It wavers in front of his tired eyes, and the longer he stares at it, the more he feels like the darkness is a living thing.

It does nothing for his ability to relax. He's tempted to turn over in his bedroll, to look away and ignore it, but he's not uncomfortable, just restless. And it's not as if looking away is going to make it disappear.

_Just like the rest of your problems._

Annoying.

Katy and Shay are stretched out next to him, their quiet breathing as soft and steady as waves on the shoreline as the tide recedes. Katy has one leg thrown over Shay, who protested maybe once, and then apparently gave up. The half-orc sleeps with her brow slightly furrowed, as though it requires all of her concentration. It doesn't look particularly restful.

Khem is on their other side, well away from him. She's finally put down her book long enough to wrap herself in a blanket and curl up on her side, coiled around her shiny new magic like a dragon asleep on its horde. Wizards and power; it's probably not an inappropriate analogy. He isn't sure which comes first, a taste of power or the taste for it, but there is something in it that he finds disconcertingly familiar.

And disturbing. An echoing rattle from an old dead life.

In the distance he can hear a faint rustling, quiet like moth wings fluttering near a lamp. The scrape of paper over paper, fingers on the texture of well-loved pages.

Dexterous fingers.

 _Now why is_ that _important?_

It isn't - or at least, it shouldn't be. There's just something _wrong_ with him, something reckless and weak and isolating that he never has been able to fully control. Katy mumbles something into the back of Shay's shirt and squeezes closer, and Harper drags his hands over his face, grateful no one is awake to notice his cock half-hard under his blankets.

Stupid.

He gets up.

Stupid.

He feels a mess, wants a bath. Katy's magic helps, but it comes with the cost of very nearly being exploded, and there's no substitute for soap and water. The only thing he misses about Skullport is a mostly-proper place to wash.

It can't be helped now, though, and they'll be back soon enough. He hasn't quite worked out the way he feels about that either, and so he shunts it aside, turning the key on that thought to lock it away.

Jarnath is in the corridor beyond the door, just where he left him. Harper isn't sure which he finds more unexpectedly endearing - that he's wrapped up in Harper's blanket, or that he's rereading that trashy garbage novel Katy lent him for what has to be the second time. It's not exactly dense stuff, but it seems to be providing the drow with some kind of entertainment on what has to be an entirely unfulfilling trip.

If he was a better person, he'd feel bad about that, but he's not. _He,_ at least, has rather enjoyed himself.

Jarnath looks up at him, finger on the page, and raises one perfectly arched brow. "Harper."

Just the sound of his voice is enough to stir - _get it together, Taliesin._ It's funnier than it is embarrassing (can he even _be_ embarrassed anymore?), and he smirks and holds one finger to his lips for quiet. Jarnath's other brow goes up to match the first.

Harper grins, cants his head toward the door, and steals away on silent feet into the greater darkness. He doesn't look behind him to see if Jarnath is following, but he can hear the sound of the book closing and the rustle of fabric, and really this kind of thing is almost too easy.  A terrible idea, certainly - he can imagine Khem's eyes rolling into the back of her skull, annoyed and apoplectic at the illogic of it all. But he's never been the best at thinking things through.

Right now it's simple, though; he doesn't want to think at all.

There is still a subtly charred smell to the room, and the look that Jarnath gives him when he realizes where they are going is dour. His apology for the foolishness with the trap still sticks in Harper's mind - unnecessary, of course. Still, it's amusing, almost - dare he say - _adorable_ , this unexpected animation from the arrogant and haughty drow, rushing ahead, showing off, like a peacock flashing his feathers.

Harper props himself against the chest bolted into the center of the room, exaggeratedly casual.

"Really," Jarnath starts, as much at Harper's expression as their new locale, faint disapproval vibrating in his low voice. Harper shrugs and grins, reaching out to hook his fingers into the waistband of Jarnath's pants.

Unsubtle, but he doesn't want to talk. When he pulls, Jarnath presses into him, hip to hip. The way Harper leans puts them almost of a height, and it is a very, very easy thing to slide a bare hand into Jarnath's hair and reel him in for a kiss.

Jarnath allows it, like a cat deigning to permit itself be petted. It's a cooler reception than Harper is expecting given the flash and fire of their last encounter, but he only has himself to blame for that. His ability to confuse and obfuscate is both a natural talent and an unintended consequence, but Jarnath doesn't stop him and Harper works at it, a hint of demand on the tip of his tongue.

It requires less effort than he anticipates. All it takes is a twist of his wrist, a light tug to the hair captured in his fist, and there are sharp teeth in his lip. It's meant to hurt, he thinks, but that suits him fine. Being delicate requires a certain amount of strategy that he is glad to dispense with, to distill the moment down to nothing but two willing bodies in the dark. He wants to fuck Jarnath, not woo him, and the drow is certainly old enough to make his own terrible decisions.

He can taste the warm copper of blood in his mouth, and his lip throbs when Jarnath pulls away. He has the idle desire to strike him, to stun the smug feline smile off his face with a sudden show of violence, but he quells the sudden urge, turns it in and inside out. He is still _himself_ , not -

Him. His is not his father, never will be.

Harper pushes Jarnath back against the chest rather than think of _that_ name, twisting them around so their positions are reversed. The drow is strong but slight, and it takes little effort to grip slim hips and lift him onto the wide platform of the wooden lid, shoving in close, between his thighs. Despite the mixed responses to his overtures, he can feel the outline of a hard cock press against the flat of his stomach, hot even through the double barrier of their clothing. He flattens his palm against it without preamble, his teeth set against the column of an exposed throat.

He doesn't break the skin but he sucks until there's a bruise, nigh invisible against the elf's dark flesh, but a tender memory if he chooses not to heal it away.  Magic makes things so mutable, so temporary, but he's only trying to live in this moment anyway.

Jarnath hisses in his ear, drags his hands up Harper's back to dig strong fingers into his shoulders and rake them down again. It makes his body arch, thrusting forward. He's been fully hard since the moment they stepped into the room, and any bit of friction is a kind of torture. He doesn't feel the need to show particular restraint, grinding forward to meet heat with heat.

He doesn't ask permission. If Jarnath wants them to stop they'll stop, one way or the other, but for now he lets himself go, tries to allow his mind to switch off and instinct to take over.

One belt is very much like another and his nimble fingers make short work of Jarnath's, tackling the fastenings of the breeches beneath with perhaps less finesse than he could have mustered. That belongs to a different moment - one he wants to enjoy, certainly, but later - and for now he just wants the feeling of Jarnath's hard cock in his hand.

The drow sucks in a breath, hissing through his teeth. He swells against Harper's palm, pulsing against the trap of his fingers, rutting forward and back into his callused grip. Always so eager. The faintly textured metal of the piercing at the head of his cock brushes Harper's fingertips, and he traces its shape with the pad of his thumb.

Jarnath shudders, fingers tightening on Harper's shirt. Rather than let him destroy it, Harper takes it off. It's not by far the first time he's seen Harper half undressed, but he is vain enough to recognize the pleased smirk on Jarnath's mouth for the approval that it is.

They're still not in a safe place though, if such a thing even exists, and he doesn't want to be any less clothed than he has to be. This is already a risk - on a number of levels, a _risk_ \- and he is well aware of the dangers of discovery.

For fuck's sake, he just wants to _sleep_.

His belt comes undone as he hesitates, his eyes squeezing shut for a long moment as the confines of his breeches loosen and slim, pretty fingers wrap themselves around his cock. It feels good, simultaneously too much and not enough, and he presses in closer, arranging Jarnath's thighs about his hips so he can press their bodies together and take them both in hand. Drow skin doesn't lend itself well to the flush of arousal, but Jarnath's strange red eyes are dark with desire, trained intently on where their flesh presses.

He could use something slick for this, and out of one of Jarnath's pockets comes a familiar vial. Harper wonders how many of these things he has, if he keeps them close out of habit, or if he was perhaps expecting that this was the way the evening would play out. Jarnath is hard to read, even harder when distracted, and Harper decides only to care about the things that Harper _has_ to care about in this moment, opening the vial with his teeth and spitting the cork into the darkness.

It's cool, but warms quickly to the heat of their bodies, gleaming across skin both pale and dark in the half-light. The contrast is - interesting. Variety. _Spice._ It sounds so shallow echoing in his own head; doubtless he's jaded, but that isn't really anyone's fault but his own. He leans in, pressing his lips to the tender spot his mouth created on Jarnath's shoulder, and begins to work his hips. Jarnath's piercing feels good, dragging against the sensitive underside of Harper's cock; an added texture. It's not a first, but it's certainly not common enough that it's lost its novelty.

He means to ask about it, at any rate. Wonders who it's for.

Jarnath leans in to find his lips, and this time it's Harper who allows it. The sheer eagerness in their encounters is always bemusing. It's appreciated, of course, but somehow it emphasizes his lover's comparative youth when, by human reckoning at any rate, that should not be such a thing. Perhaps Harper is just old in his bones.

It's not a terribly welcome thought and so he banishes it, challenging himself instead to wring out what sounds Jarnath can’t smother. All of this enthusiasm belongs in a bed, in a proper room with four walls and a door that shuts and locks where these little noises can be fully enjoyed. Here _silence_ is their watchword and they fail at that from the start. The sound of their flesh in his fist is wet, obscene, and as Jarnath inches closer to the edge a quiet hum starts in the back of his throat, a low keen compressed.

He could bring him off here, just like this, but somehow he senses that will fail to fully impress his young lover, and he, despite his best efforts, is nowhere near finding the relief he originally sought.

He stills his hand and Jarnath's eyes snap open, lips parting, likely to lodge a complaint. It makes Harper want to laugh, managing to distill his gloating down to an unrepentant grin. Jarnath glowers for half an instant before Harper turns him to face away, a less than gentle nudge towards the edge of the chest. It's nearly the right height, if not the most comfortable of surfaces, to bend a body over.

He doesn't try to go slow this time - at least, not as slow as before. Jarnath is ready for him, eyes half-lidded as he presses one long finger home. It hasn't been so long since their last - first - encounter, but it seems like fifty years. A second finger joins the first, down to the third knuckle, and Jarnath's back arches like a cat, a delicate shudder running through his body when Harper flexes his wrist.

He's beautiful and he more than knows it, a look almost coy over one shoulder as Harper withdraws to take himself in hand. There is maybe uncertainty there too, but not so much that it drowns out the desire, or the adventure of it all. He quivers on the balls of his feet, impatient, already pressing back as Harper presses forward.

And then he's in.

This is not going to be a gentle thing, he can already tell. Jarnath braces himself against the lid of the chest, the other reaching back to grasp at Harper's hip, and it feels only natural to take him by the wrist, by the back of the neck, and force him down.

'Force', anyway. He already knows well enough that Jarnath only does as Jarnath is wont to do, and in this case he has no specific quarrel with that. It helps allay the guilt - and there is always guilt - about what his real motives are.

He doesn't think that Jarnath gives a good god damn about motives though, and that at least is convenient. Harper’s hand loosens in its grip around his wrist, bending forward to echo the shape of the back bowed beneath him as his hips establish a rhythm that piece by piece unravels all thought.

It feels good, all tight, slick heat and a strong body under his that makes all the appropriate noises. Quietly, not so quietly, he's not sure he really cares at this point, and the hiss Jarnath makes when he yanks the collar of his shirt aside and sinks his teeth into the back of his shoulder is satisfying. Harper's mouth still hurts, lip raw; he can feel the ragged edge of the split against his teeth.

They fuck. There isn't anything particularly artful about it, except Harper's ability to keep an even pace and a steady rhythm. Fast and hard and just a touch punishing; the force of his body moving forward slams the tops of Jarnath's thighs into the edge of the chest in a way that can hardly be comfortable, but the drow doesn't complain - even less so when Harper hooks an arm around his waist and curls his hand around his cock. He doesn't even stroke, letting the power of his thrusting do the extra work for him, no spare movement wasted. Precum coats his fingers, sticky and slick, when he changes the angles to slide hard against that smooth spot that makes Jarnath clench around him, dragging a startled, shuddering gasp from his lips.

They're both close. His naked chest presses into Jarnath's back, silk sticking. The onus of keeping them from collapsing atop the lid of the chest has mostly fallen to the drow, and he can feel a quiver of effort through his entire body. It’s primal, sexual, and smacks oddly of defiance. He wants to strip that away, use his larger form to its best advantage and pin him face down, twist his arms behind his back, demand surrender and compliance.

He won't, of course. He knows without having to ask that that would not be welcome, and it's not even necessary. Jarnath has given him everything that he's asked for, and he hasn't even bothered really to _ask_ , just grunting and gesturing like some dumb beast.

He can do better.  He _ought_ to do better, even if there are no complaints, and the frission of guilt that winds through him at the thought delays gratification enough that Jarnath comes apart in his fist, choking back a cry as he spills into Harper's palm.

It doesn't take much, after that. A few more ruthless thrusts and he's over the edge, managing to pull out just in time to empty himself violently across Jarnath's lower back.

It's a strange kind of crescendo, more draining than it is satisfying, and it's a long moment before he even knows how to respond to the feeling, already cleaning them both up with a scrap of cloth out of his pocket before he even remembers to say anything.

"Thank you." His voice sounds like it belongs to another person entirely, and awkwardly he clears his throat, deftly wiping down his fingers as Jarnath turns to face him, leaning back against the chest. "I didn't hurt you, did I." It doesn't even sound like a question when he says it, but the words are all in the right order.

Jarnath looks at him like he's an idiot, one brow curved upward. It makes Harper laugh, low and quiet; he is an idiot, after all, so that's fair. He reaches out to tug at the fastenings of the drow's breeches and deftly do up his belt, and then winks for no reason in particular. It's not even a really appropriate winking moment, but he's come too far and he's starting to go gray and blurry around the edges.

"Just checking. Shall we go back?"

The semi-skeptical look hasn't left Jarnath's face, but eventually his features shift back into their usual handsomely surly arrangement. They don't speak as they traverse the halls back to where their companions still seem to be resting. The dome of Khem's protective bubble is still in place, and Harper thinks that he can hear Katy snoring.

Gods. He enjoys being with them, but he does so miss sleeping alone.

"Harper."

Jarnath's voice stops him midstep and he turns to look, glancing back over his shoulder. The drow has a faint frown on his face, perfect eyebrows drawn together.

"What is it?"

For a heartbeat there's silence, and then the expression smoothes away into a wide smile, revealing nothing. "Sleep well."


End file.
